


Scrawny Business

by Insane_Tomato



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, gun time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24989827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insane_Tomato/pseuds/Insane_Tomato
Summary: When things got easy, Clay got cocky.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 356





	Scrawny Business

GeorgeNotFound is in your area.  
  
Clay’s tracker, a clever targeting app disguised as a calculator, was being extra difficult to work with today. First his gun was jammed when he woke up, his knives weren’t sharpened like he ordered them to be, and now his phone was clearly bugging out on him, as George’s last name wasn’t even present. Even if he was somehow smart enough to hack the database, what kind of a code name is “GeorgeNotFound?” What a way to start an assassination.  
  
He had been stalking his target for a week, and to be honest, he wasn’t impressed. George was a scrawny, short businessman in cheap suits that clearly weren’t custom tailored; the shoulders were too shaggy, and the pants were always bunched up at the knees. Clay had been informed he was working for a company that rivals him, but to be honest, he couldn’t care less. If he really was a businessman, he was a cheap one, judging by his wallet, shoes, and tie. He had been trained to keep an eye out for indistinct details; it was always a precaution in case his target had been a little too good at blending in with crowds and disguising themselves as different characters.  
  
But there was no way George was going to slip from him.  
  
“Why is this man so dangerous anyway?” Clay pondered. He had been lectured almost three times that this “wasn’t someone he could let off” and how “everything will fail if you don’t kill him.” If he was so important, wouldn’t he have a decent suit?  
  
Speaking of decent suits, George’s tie didn’t match the aesthetic of his shoes today. Clay sighed, watching him from the top of a seven story building. He walked too easily, never even bothering to look behind him or even to the sides. He stroked confident strides, never glancing down to watch for puddles.  
  
This was too easy. Clay decided to have a little bit of fun.  
  
Jumping down via balconies, he formulated a plan in his head. He would make it down the office building without spraining anything, walk behind him for a couple of blocks, then beat him to death with his fists in a nearby alley. He chuckled as his plan slowly started emerging with the thought of blood. Death by fists. What a humiliating way to go.  
  
Step one was easy, he had made it down the building in around five minutes. Nowhere near a record, but he wasn’t in a rush.  
  
Step two was also easy, as George never once looked back at him at all. He was making it way too easy to kill him, and when things got easy, Clay got cocky. He found himself chuckling, but didn’t quite care. There was no chance in hell this twink was gonna obliterate him.  
  
He waited until they were a block away from an alley to get closer. This was the tricky part; it’s hard to take someone by surprise when you’re right on their ass. But still, George did nothing. He didn’t glance to the side, didn’t speed up his walk, nothing. This was too easy.  
  
Clay raised his hand to grab his shoulders.  
  
George paused and grabbed his wrist.  
  
...This hadn’t happened before.  
  
“Now, can you tell me why you have been following me for exactly three blocks and an eighth?” Clay did not expect him to speak, nor did he expect him to have an British accent. Thanks for the heads up, boss. British fighters were usually a little more complicated, in Clay’s experience.  
  
“Why have you been counting?” He retorted, a bit too late for his pride to be satisfied. He was a little off his game now; in his five years of assassination, this had never happened before.  
  
He chuckled. “Judging by the way you don’t have a weapon in your pockets or in the back of your pants, you’ve intended to… what, kill me with your fists?” Oh God, Clay was blushing out of embarrassment now. To think about it, that plan was kind of stupid. “I heard you chuckle back there. What’s so funny?”  
  
This was the first time in history he didn’t have a remark, or a topic change. He stayed silent. He still held onto his wrist.  
  
“You work for ManHunt, don’t you? Rather stupid name, in my opinion. I was told to look out for you.” George rambled on, never looking behind him or pausing. “Since you’re clearly arrogant, unprepared, and your plan seems rather lazily thought out, I’ll suppose you’re Clay.”  
  
He was speechless. This was new.  
  
“Don’t let your words fail you now, love.” He could practically feel his cold smugness. “Now, did you want a handicap? Or do you want to just beat me to death now? I’m fine with either.”  
  
There was no way this guy had pitied him enough to offer a handicap. Luckily, Clay had another hand to punch him with.  
  
His left wrist was grabbed as well. This guy was good.  
  
“So you’re insistent on beating me to death.”  
  
“Yep.” Smooth.  
  
In an instant, George used a little bit of lower body strength and a flick of the wrist to turn his world upside down. Literally. His back was on the concrete, George was staring at him, and his wrists were still being held onto. This guy had a strong grip. Clay foolishly forced his eyes closed, unwilling to accept this small loss.  
  
“I’ll give you the option again. Did you want a handicap, or are you still focused on childishly beating me to death?” There was a pause where he seriously considered his options. “It’s not that hot out. Are you blushing?”  
  
That’s it. He’s been made fun of for too long now. He turned his wrists over, twisting George’s. Smiling when he heard a small squeak and with his hands now free, he stood up quickly and went to grab his gun.  
  
He got a fistfull of air.  
  
“Looking for something?” He looked back up, and there was suddenly a gun to his forehead. Focusing on the engraved metal of the gun, he stood still and held his breath.  
  
“It’s not loaded.”  
  
“I know it’s not.” What? He was sure he loaded it. “I unloaded it for you.” Ah.  
  
“What are you, some sort of ninja? We couldn’t even find your last name on the database, all that came up on my tracker was ‘GeorgeNotFound.’”  
  
“You have fantastic observation skills. What are you going to tell me next? My tie is red?”  
  
“No, I was going to say it looks ugly as all hell. What kind of a business do you run? You’re dressed in kids clothes.” Clay was using all he had left: insults directed at someone’s fashion sense. What could he say? It was hard to concentrate when there’s a gun at your head. Even though he claimed it was unloaded, you can't trust everything you hear, especially when it was from the man you're supposed to kill.  
  
George chuckled. “It was the perfect distraction, wasn’t it?”  
  
What.  
  
“I’ll take that silence as a yes. Let me guess, you thought I was ‘too easy’ and decided that, by my horrible choice of tie and my cheap suit, I was unprepared. So you figured you’d play with your poor, poor victim and cruelly beat him to death because he can’t handle himself.”  
  
“...No.” That’s exactly what he thought.  
  
“Liar.” God, his voice was annoying. Fucking British people.  
  
Clay was getting frustrated. This isn’t usually how this goes, and he’s kept a perfect track record for three fucking years. Like hell he was going to let it all slip by a guy named George. “Can you at least get the damn gun off my head? It’s going to leave a mark on my skin.”  
  
“Aww, don’t wanna mess up your perfect little face?” There’s no way he had the audacity to coo at him. The gun was lowered, however. It occurred to Clay that he hadn’t actually seen his face yet, so he finally glanced up.  
  
...Were those clout goggles?  
  
“That is… the dumbest thing I’ve seen.”  
  
“What matters is what you don’t see. My eyes.” Clever. Clever, but still stupid. Even though this was a decent remark, it gave him time to grab his emergency bodice knife.  
  
Which was gone.  
  
Frantically, Clay slapped at all of his pockets. “What the hell!?” Yeah, this hasn’t happened before. He looked back up, and his small but deadly knife was hanging right in front of him.  
  
“Looking for something?” God, he’d seen that smirk only once and he was already sick of it. He felt like a child with his hand stuck in a cookie jar; what appeared to be a simple target was a genius Trojan Horse. It had worked on him.  
  
“Stop taking my fucking weapons!”  
  
“Stop making it easy.” He tossed his knife back to him, then his gun in a quick fashion. Clay almost fumbled it. That would have almost been as embarrassing as George stealing all of his weapons. “I’ll make a compromise with you.”  
  
“The hell do you want?” He was running out of patience, and it was obvious. He’d never admit it, but he was crossing his arms and pouting.  
  
“You’re good. Freakishly good. You have, what, a three or so year record? You’re stupid good.”  
  
“Thanks, I’m flattered.”  
  
“I would be.” He cracked his neck, careful not to let his stupid goggles fall. “I’ll take pity on you, even though I was ordered to kill you. Meet me here on Sunday?” This is such a strange interaction.  
  
“You could kill me easily, and here you are, arranging a death match.”  
  
“I want a fair fight. Do you know how impressive it sounds? To have killed Clay himself?" He giggled. "I’m just playing with you today.” Even though it was a threatening remark, it sounded like a kitten was trying to scream. Clay smiled. This guy had to be some sort of crazy, why would you want to schedule a "fair fight" when you know you're going to lose? He was infamous for a reason.  
  
“Sunday. I’ll surprise you when.”  
  
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Oh, and by the way?”  
  
Jesus Christ, what now? He hummed in response, not feeling exactly great.  
  
“Check your gun.” George did the stupidest thing he could possibly do next. He tilted his dumb fucking clout goggles, exposing his eyes.  
  
He winked. Clay blushed for the second time in his life.  
  
And he was gone. Looks like he was just as good at getting away as Clay was.  
  
Dumbfounded, he looked at his gun. Nothing was scratched on the outside, thank god. It was his baby.  
  
He opened the gun in the middle of the street which, admittedly, was not a wise decision. Inside were five bullets and a wadded up piece of paper. Looks like George was good at lying, too. Sunday’s going to be exciting. He opened the paper and smiled.  
  
“405-394-2339. Call me if you want to get properly executed :)”


End file.
